"Diabolism" - For Eileen Mary Jones Ropes

"Diabolism"

For Eileen Mary Jones Ropes

5/10/44 - 11/7/99

by Christopher Ropes

"Ritual Faces.

The murderers in red

crept into and out of

strange boxes and hallways,

hallways barely lit and cluttered;

don't sleep in these hallways

littered with murderers

in red, cowls and masks,

wrinkles slender and desperate

hang onto an old lady's mouth

and her eyeways are barely lit

and her precious skull is a box

and the teeth are chattering,

a strange clicking box,

clicking Ragnarok,

the old gods die by fire and sword

and screaming car crashes.

There are murderers in red,

I think I showed you

when we were still children,

not just killers but murderers

on velvet-slippered feet.

They creep and crept

through orifices and hungers,

when we were still young

they wore animal masks

and jangled delightful jigs

and juggled daggers.

Animal masks for a boy's fancy,

I remember when we were

boys and girls or younger,

we haven't walked along the beach

in years and years,

listen for the tides and years,

bare feet squish in sea foam

straight through the Earth's wet crust,

stir the graves, burial at sea,

remember your loved ones as torches,

stir the worms, stir the families,

burial at sea and years and years.

The murderers in red

sink like stones in cluttered hallways,

no more a velvet-slippered footstep,

no less a ticking demon clock

tocking sullen in the eye hole

of an animal mask,

no more a Tridentine Requiem Mass,

invite the choir, invite the worms.

The murderers in red

fuss with her hair and makeup

and tinker with our dignity and years,

take off those animal masks,

carve thyself ritual faces.

Faces of an old lady

grayed by insulin leaking drip drip

from ragged holes in her regret

and faint smiling nostalgia.

An old lady or a mother

or years and years?

Murderers in baptismal white creep and crept

through tunnels and burrows

in my mother's Golgotha

that kissed me goodbye

(or was it goodnight and hello?)

many, many years and years,

years and years.

Ago.

"Palm Sunday Belated"

Upon, ascend, descend, tidal,

what goes up must come trickling down

the greenness of Mount Carmel's slopes,

the only green, the evermore green

as lush as maternal love

where Mother Mary walks discalced

and expectant sisters wait for

eternal virginity and they remember

when we went up and trickled

a long way back down,

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.

Beside, vision, visitation, caress,

the breast of the world, Mount Carmel

nourishing her children, where

Mother Mary remains vigilant

draped in a shroud of blue Turin

and wearing the face of a

sister in prayer, even in sorrow.

"Fiat," whimpered, palm branches sway,

this halo nimbus nativity around my mother's head,

"I will love you for all maternity,

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus."

Mother Mary, vigil for murderers in baptismal white,

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.

Murderers in red, baptism of blood whetting desire,

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.

III.

"Consecration By Rat Or Vicar"

Saturnine box, a moody coffin scowls,

the pretty and floral spray and silk

are falsehood and falsehood sends her away.

Tendrils vibrate, violate, quiver at her flesh,

rat whiskers, do worms have nerves?

Enervate, violate, bend your knee and pray or stare.

Seal the eyes sanctifies good-byes,

goodnight, hello, Eileen was once Eileen

young and pretty and her photographs proclaim the day.

Overtures and undertones of empathy and discomfort,

that box is hatred, one girl wails while cigarettes burn

and friends of the family scurry, rat whiskers, "Whatever shall

I wear?"

Death is killing me.

Death is making me

soft as Eva Braun,

a warm softness

in the hands of tyranny,

it's killing me.

Bow thy head

and let thy tongue

taste words most awesome

and fearful,

"My Lord and my God."

Velvet-gloved hands

touch my mother,

Golgotha,

the sacrifice of the Messiah

is an eternal moment,

a sacrifice for all maternity,

and a couple walks hand-in-hand

across the parking lot,

breathing steam or souls,

and coming inside

paints anguish on ritual faces.

Murderers in red

touch my mother's head,

she kissed us once

like Mount Carmel,

lush, green, lush,

and murderers in baptismal white

sign the guestbook,

clutch memorial prayer cards

with shaking hands and spindly

spider fingers

and tell me, "You look very nice,

you're holding up so well."

Turn away

before they say,

"My Lord and my God."

At least there's a luncheon after.

Lamb of God who takest away

the sins of the world, lay me not

in a saturnine box,

have mercy on us.

And my mother's head,

lifeless and pretty falsehood,

in truth no less Golgotha,

no more Calvary,

filled with wax and formaldehyde,

sealed eyes,

wax and straw and Minnesota,

her head is tight and small

squeezed by cold skin

and burrows and tunnels

in cranium,

entombed in her precious skull

like a precious ruby,

murderers in red

with red eyes,

rubies for eyes,

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.

Mother Mary,

make of my mother's head

a Communion host,

a salvaged Eucharist,

a new-born womb…

IV.

"Vulture Demagogue"

"Yes, yes, yes,

it hurts, I know it hurts.

May I?

Oh please,

I insist.

She meant so much

to me.

Oh please,

oh honey,

no, no, I insist."

Black shapes circling, swooping, strike prey, circle, strike and pray. The dead are helpless and this one is dead. Make a valid claim, make a plea. Seduce the truth without speaking it. Wear a ritual face, make an offer, be a friend, circle, swoop, strike prey and pray…

"No, no, really,

I loved her

so much

and I love you

as my own son

and, by God

you little bastard,

I insist."

"Falling Towards Emmaus"

Years have a way of echoing

and years and years,

so perhaps I should address poor Yoric

as well as my mother.

So perhaps I should ask

on the road to Emmaus,

"What do you mean by 'Resurrection?'"

So perhaps years and years

trickle down lactating Mount Carmel

or drooling Golgotha.

It does no good to be a poet

(per omnia saecula saeculorum)

the champion rests on his laureate

(confiteor Deo Omnipotenti)

while the others drown.

(Agnus Dei)

(Death is killing me.)

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,

the box is closed

and closed declares itself at peace.

"The sound you hear

is not scrabbling, scratching hands

inside a sullen coffin."

Ride shotgun,

we'll drive to Emmaus,

we'll find somewhere to go,

we'll pay the tolls

and sleep in rest stops

and compose a requiem

and find somewhere to go,

Emmaus is downhill

from Golgotha

and gravity summons us there.

Murderers in red

mow wheat and chaff

with sickle-cells

and every spider

mothers a million young

so when you kill a spider

you create a million orphans

and murderers in baptismal white

sing thy praise

and curse thy name.

When all is said and done,

the final praises sung

and a crown rests on Mother's head,

only victims are left to bury their…

Mother.

VI.

"Through Satan To Infant Bethlehem"

A black trenchcoat simulates evil fantasies,

stimulates a pulse of isolation,

I think I'd like to be left alone.

Since we were children I've been lonely,

never alone.

A boy in a man who cannot cry,

who observes majestic Satan,

who turns and yearns, cupped by

a secret ritual, an initiation in isolation.

Mother Mary, stir the graves, take these worms

and mold them into a soft, soft place,

a wet and sleepy new-born womb…

Rouse the sisters, promise them martyrdom,

stir the convents and pray with me.

Midnight without a midwife

gives birth to a man

who turns and yearns to be

dry and amputated skin

and a pile of crackling bones

thrown up to the firmament

of Tennessee.

But Minnesota midnight

delivers bloody,

thicker than placenta,

eat,

a new-born womb throbs

in the throat of the sky

in the beating heart of God

in the slumber of Tennessee,

eat,

thicker than placenta,

a furious, ancient wine,

my drink, my chalice,

eat,

she bends her Golgotha,

no more life,

no less divinity,

and her Golgotha

still kisses me.

Deathbed invocation,

original sin defies penitence,

wake the fiends,

stir the sisters who pray

for a boy in a man,

draw the circle, inscribe the runes,

draw,

draw the Tower and

the Heirophant,

a bludgeoned sky

spits salvation,

stir the demons,

wake the dead,

stand alone

in a field

in a black trenchcoat

in the sobbing heart of evil

or ash and sackcloth

on the scrawny, scarred backs

of the futile, frail holy.

I never kissed her

goodbye.

I didn't call.

I waited a moment too long.

Happy birthday, Eric.

Are we there yet?

Is it over yet?

I'd like to see Mount Carmel

feeding the lakes of Minnesota

or a virgin mother in Tennessee.

The year is 1980

and I'm reading her

a story

for a homework assignment

and my bony butt is sore

on her chubby knee…

If there is a nexus

that might as well be,

it all makes perfect sense

in a single memory.

And alone

in a field

in Minnesota midnight

a boy inside a man

holds her Golgotha

in his hands

and whispers,

"Mother Mary,

kiss her with me."

12/3/99